The green star Sabrontir burned its ancient deposit of hydrogen, the stellar engine of heat and gravity performing the duty assigned it billions of years ago, but today it was not alone. Arrived a fraction of a heartbeat ago, on the scale that Sabrontir might measure the time, new things performed the eternal rite of fusion, but these things were not stars, but far tinier, and far more quick and intense. The Starkin Federation had come to Sabrontir, had assessed the bounty of the rocks and pockets of gas that had been out of the star's ability to swallow at the beginning of its life, and it had dubbed them good. And so, they had come to take what they could. In one of those rocks, the second planet, they had found that most precious of things, liquid water, and it was then that they decided to stay.

The half-completed elevator hung over Sabrontir II, turning its slow, majestic lock step with the orbit, while dozens of freighters made the run from the three asteroid belts to the orbital foundries, feeding its appetite for metals and carbon, while below, masters of bio-technology began the process of seeding the planet with more favorable forms of life, letting the tiniest and simplest of creatures begin their frenetic dance. Above, in even higher orbits, and in still other arcs and courses flew the protectors and privateers, for here, there was wealth to be had. And where there was wealth to be had, there would always be those seeking to claim it, with or without the right, and unafraid to make others bleed for it.

Even so, the mood of the sophonts on the elevator was, over all, a bustling, happy one. Recently, after all, the upper decks had been cleared for habitation, and commerce had begun, and the cantina rang with music, and the buzz of half-drunken (and fully drunken) patrons, while near by shops rang up purchases by the dozens. Truly, colonization had begun, even if few had yet stepped on the ground below.

And as Sabrontir shed its light freely upon all those in orbit around it, one more newcomer arrived, falling from its tightly-folded hyper space into normality as it felt the tug of Sabrontir's gravity, drifting into that gentle, distant embrace, sending out a repeated message in the electromagnetic spectrum, one uncomprehended, even unnoticed at first, as it began its cometary path towards the green star, its vast mass slow and majestic as it started to fall...

Connor leaned back in the pilot’s seat and relaxed. After a long transport to the Sabrontir system, he was glad to be out in open space again. This was the life…no one to answer to but himself. He gave a wry smile as a light on the control console began a slow steady blink. “d**n system diagnostics again” mumbling to himself. Picking up a long yellow cable from the side of his chair he pulled his hair to one side. He reached his hand to the back of his neck, the jack of the cable between his fingers. He winced as he fitted it into the port at the base of his skull. Always hated the way that feels… The console in front of him came alive with lights; blinking, pulsing, and burning steadily as he sat back again and looked blankly out of the forward window. He’d have this done in a short second. The system still hadn’t processed the new configuration to take in the several empty compartments now hidden throughout the ship. A simple recalibration would do the trick…. He set his sights on the stars outside. According to his display, Elevator wasn’t that far now…three quarters an hour at most. GG2 laid a ways behind him. Not that he didn’t plan on making a stop there eventually, he just had more pressing business to tend to. Most of the lights on the console, including the one that was troubling him, had gone out again. “Problem fixed, my dear” he spoke almost too loud. He’d never had too many people on his ship, so talking to “her” was the most conversation he had in space. It seemed natural, comforting. When he was a boy his mother told him a long time ago on Earth, men named their vessels. It was a tradition, or so she told him. He remembered this often, and feeling the need to continue the tradition he named his ship. A renovated yacht, really. “Lunasombra” was her name now… He disconnected the cable from the cyber jack and stood up slowly. He’d be at Elevator soon, he had things to do. His weapon systems were on-line and running, now he just needed to double check his “cargo areas”. No use leaving them wide open for anyone to see. He trudged off to the lower levels of the ship to get to work. He had a while before making port, but he wanted to relax a bit before he went scouting for gainful and lucrative employment…

Logged

"Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats." ~Henry L Mencken

Erik Starvoid drifted, slightly, in the microgravity aboard his ship; a patchwork horror named the Karloff at the suggestion of one of his only other surviving Clanfolk, a Salvorathan woman with a fondness for relics of ancient Terran culture, it ran along the upper edge of the innermost world of the system, a massive gas giant. The ship's sensors studying the gaseous medium around it, even as other portions of the machinery sucked at the mix, pulling it away to be filtered and compressed for storage; although he was merely scouting out the planet, there was no point to wasting time hauling back an empty hold. The Salvorathan pilot-owner was only halfway paying attention to the ship's course; for something as simple as skimming the atmosphere, the ship's autopilot was far more than sufficient. Instead, he studied the readout of the ship's sensors, making note of the strata of atmosphere below; while the freighter itself couldn't descend into the heated depths, the information might sell decently to someone with a vessel capable of making the dive.

He half-absently kept a fraction of his attention for the communication bands and other sensors; one never knew when someone else might decide to drop in and either want to talk or start talking by opening fire on you, in a frontier system like this one. Sometimes other pilots might even let it slip where they'd found something more profitable than upper-fringe atmospheric gas, and it wouldn't do to let that go by unnoticed. Meanwhile, he kept to relative silence - although given the way the freighter leaked radiation much like an antique sieve leaking water, his odds of going unnoticed by anyone looking were slim at best - though if they weren't paying attention, he might get dismissed as a fluke of radioactive material caught in the giant world's magnetic field.

Logged

"I grab the sword!""Mmkay, you're dead.""What!?""You just grabbed the sword of the god you were just personally responsible for banishing from the world for the next ten thousand years. You just got zapped by around a billion volts of Angry Divine Power. You're dead."

Kestral looked about the dreadfully cramped 'apartment' he had managed to obtain on the Elevator. No windows, no furnishing - at least none that could support an Oraki, only a pair of heavy equipment pallets (probably stolen) with a few spare blankets. Though prosperous, eveything was hard to get here, and few would cut a deal with the Oraki.

He had plenty of credits - he had found much employment as a convoy guard with his fighter, a Boeing Militaman he had had painted with broad white stripes on its navy blue hull. "Invasion Stripes" the artist had called them. But the flights were boring and uneventful, so he had come here, where things did happen, and blood did boil into the vacum. Someday he might like to take boring runs, but not yet.

Stopping his thoughts, he got up and checked his gear - all internal systems in working order, and he picked up his close combat tool, tucked the standoff blaster into a pocket and stepped out into the hallway. He was bored and needed to take a look around.

It took a while to bring him to the canteena - his room was far from anything, but he enjoyed streaching his legs after all the time aboard ship. The canteena was an interesting place - the organics were in the process of poisoning themselves and losing what control they had. He waited to see what the reaction of those few patrons who noticed him would be...

<ooc All of his heavy gear is stowed aboard the fighter - until I find out what the rules here are on carrying his heavy ordinance..>

The heavy freighter "Glory of Rome" readied itself for the voyage between the stars, to leave Sabrontir behind laden with precious merchandize. Unnoticed, a cargo hold lost pressure and spewed forth its contents, small pieces of existence in the void at the edge of the system.

The merchant ship's drives flared, illuminating the emptiness of space with the radiance of a thousand suns for a fraction of a second, and gone it was, laughing at the speed of light while chagring ahead through the ephemeral semi-existence that was hyperspace.

As the last ripples it left behind smoothed out, a piece of cargo came to life, dim blue light emerging from a container. Laser flashes cut through its surface, setting free a small vessel that lit its drives, and headed towards the cozier reaches of the system on a tail of blue.

Within, Danasheth stretched, filled with relief - finally, she had run far enough.

The last month was entertaining, if one preferred adrenaline sports - hopefully, though, it would stay her private joke.From the day she left the poor Jelena, a naive cadet to-be, drugged and took her place on the board of the Star Streak, an older carrier used for training purposes, and faked an accident ending in her demise during a training exercise, to hide amongst the cargo of unwitting merchants hopping from system to system, not leaving any tracks - until she ended up here - beyond, the star maps spoke 'Here Be Dragons'.

Which was fine.

Her fighter, reprogrammed, believed itself to have been sold as military surplus to an anonymous mercenary squad, where its trail lost itself.

Which was fine as well.

Having accelerated enough, Danasheth shut down the engines, and enjoyed the silence of space.

Logged

"Captain, the buttocks are moving from the pink into the red and purple spectrum! We cannot maintain this rate of spanking any longer!"

Mach 0235.1 was annoyed. This taken-by-gremlins ship was a wreck. He'd bought it just yesterday from a merchant who said that she was a fine ship, and he was sad to let her go, but he had to settle down. For his health, you understand. Well, the deal had turned out the Oraki's metaphorical pockets, and now he had very little hard cash left. He was going to need to find a job, and soon, if he was going to get this crow-begotten ship working more than a third of the time. At least the merchant had included a full tank in the deal. He wouldn't need to fill up any time soon. Combined with the nice stores of food paste he had accumulated, he could survive for a decent amount of time, until he was able to pull in a deal of some sort.

Which, of course, still left him stuck here in this stupid docking complex at the partially-finished orbital elevator, with a barely-working transport ship. So much for 'a fine ship'. A sigh was all the expression he could give to the matter. He was good with mechanics, but he didn't have experience with ships. How could he have known this one was little better than scrap metal? It had looked fine on the surface. Perhaps if he went into the elevator, he could find some sort of transport work. There was even a 'cantina' somewhere around here. Mach was curious to check it out, and perhaps even have one of these 'beers' that he'd heard so much about. It was doubtful that getting drunk was a possibility, but the taste was most of the point anyway.

<OOC: Ship is docked at the elevator, Mach is headed towards the cantina. He's packing both his knife and his Firefly, but doesn't really intend to need them. He's looking for work, transport work being preferable.>

Her move had put him on the proverbial knife edge. Rarely had he battled such a skilled opponent. Deploying all his skills with n-dimensional matrices, he began to calculate the current potential landscape. Clearly, This would be a make or break move.

Making his move, Barnaby 'Alice' Brevil saw it reflected on the bridge's holo-deck. The abstract shapes danced, shifted, and returned to stillness. Presently, his move was followed by her mellow voice coming over the bridge's speaker:

"Very well. Let us see whether you truly appreciate the fineries of N-Chess"

And so, for a while, The battle continued, Him thinking himself victorious, her, aided by the millions of simultaneous calculations from her carbon-boron-silicon processors, knowing Herself victorious. Until the knife edge was crossed:

"I dare say, Checkmate, professor."

"Very well, Maia. I salute you. A flawless game, as always. I await the revanche, and this time, you better be prepared"

"I await it with trepidation!" A long pause followed while Barnaby looked around the bridge, savouring his freshly squeezed orange juice.

"Say, Maia, is Old Ben anywhere near Sabrontir II?""Just show me on the deck."He added quickly

The Holo-deck shifted again, this time revealing the elliptic lines of a system map. Two dots were highlighted in red brackets, the smallest, labeled "46g.64e.09f3.23 (Benjamin Franklin)" slowly advanced towards the almost stationary planet, labeled "Sabrontir II". In a small box in the corner, information scrolled down. In large letter one could see "ETA: 00:00:00:04:37"

"Very well. Maia, I'll go water the plants in the green room, then I'm going for a small nap. Would you wake me up when we're docked?-oh, and Remind me to take my cards when I set off, too."

And so the professor stood up, and left the bridge. The infinite expense of space stretched out beyond the viewport, the stars only more noticeable as the room's lights automatically switched off. Soon, the view would fill with the beautiful crescent of a waning planet, but until then, the comfortable bridge was silent, bathed in the faint glow of the instruments.

Logged

"Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away."-Philip K. Dick

As they arrived, each of the Oraki were greeted in turn by the cantina's bouncer, an enormous brute of a human, fully six and a half feet tall, with what parts of his nut-browned skin visible covered in exotic patterns of neon-purple tatoos. To Kestrel, the man nodded, waving him into the Canteena, with a half rumbled, "Have fun, Pinnochio, but yer toys needs ta stay stowed, gawt it?" The first man-machine through the door, he fell back against the wall, leaning there and waiting, at least until the second, Mach, arrived, drawing a blink, and even a gape from the muscle man. "Two uv yinz in a day?" Still, he just stood agape, not making any motion to stop the Oraki as he arrived.

An odder hive of dancing scum and drinking villainy cannot possibly exist, and if it did, it was not likely to be equipped with multiple disco balls sticking out of seeming random surfaces, casting their spotted, colored lights about the room in throbbing, whirling flashes. Nor was the music likely to be the same, with an all Salvorathan band on the stage, in the final stages of tuning up, a sound not entirely unlike the demonic crossbreed of a tactical nuclear weapon and an electric guitar. With a mere early evening's crowd, only a few dozen eyeballs turned to the Oraki as they entered, most out of the habit of sizing up potential trouble, though more than a few stayed in open stares, while a small compliment of human and Salvorathan waitstaff darted among them. At least none had that drilling, hateful stare that some zealots managed. Mostly, they seemed to be curious.

Manning the bar, as Mach approached it, was a single tender, his long, silvery hair tucked behind pointed ears, while ruby eyes flecked with emerald lit up a moment, his sing-song voice calling out over the twanging and crashing of the tune-up. "Ha-la! Na Kel'Ora! The stars, have they perhaps yielded up a challenge to my fair art at long last? What have you come here for, oh Ironman? Is it indeed to test my skill, to see if I can succeed where many another keep has surely failed? To feel my delicate weavings of the spirits upon your tongue? They do tell me you gentlemen have those, right? ... Ah. No? Then what have you come here for, my friend? Ahh, yes, yes, of course. But you may as well sit a spell, and enjoy my elixers, for that comes in its own time here, and if it really is what you're after, he's usually not here until a touch later in the day. So what may I craft for you today?"

And the band exploded into metallic noise.

Space - just another frontier

With the fringe atmosphere of Sabrontir I, a common comm band crackled to life a moment with a brief moment of static, as another ship passed below the Karloff. "Hey, yinz alive up 'der in dat bucket, or is we coming up ta salvage?" At least the voice was relatively friendly, as it addressed the ship, a touch of actual concern in the voice, masking a little bit of the opportunism.

Elsewhere, with the passing of time, more bands and beams came to life, landing clearances being granted for the Franklin and the Souhait, while automatic mechanisms brought them to bear along the partly-finished docking ring, hanging weightlessly in orbit at the geostationary level, the larger ship mated to an airlock, the smaller, arriving in a bay, each granting access to a busy port-side, cargo and parts carts moving here and there amongst a cacaphony of beeps and horns. Chaos in a bottle, it would seem.

Meanwhile, in deep space, several ships continued their slow drift, each almost imperceptible against the background radiation, despite the vast differences in their size, one small and tiny, carrying a single, fae-like creature, the other enormous, and betraying its presence only with a simple, repeated signal in a tucked away corner of the radio spectrum, nearly Morse like in its nature.

However, apart from their common ancestry, Kestral had nothing to do with the second man-machine, and simply contented himself to observe. Looking about he doubted any of the furnishing were Oraki rated, so he leaned up against the wall and watched.

He actually turned down his audio input slightly, really nothing more then an act of will, as the audio assault began. Funny what these beings consider music, though it does have a unique timbre....

Mach unknowingly agreed with Kestral, declining to take a seat, unsure as to whether one could even support over half a ton of metal and not in the mood to find out (nor the financial capability to replace said seat). He could, however, afford a drink or two. "I've heard much of this so-called 'beer' Terrans have come up with. Might I purchase one?"

He grinned at the tender and looked around, sizing up the crowd. What sort of hauling work he could find here, he wasn't entirely sure. "Tell me, do you happen to have any information about hauling jobs?"

Sooner or later, she would have to make her presence known, weave contacts and seek employment - still, the enigmatic ship struck Danashet's curiosity. Sliding by, nothing more than space debris with drives shut down, she would be able to examine it with the fine feel of her sensors.

The stars twinkled as the slender frame of her fighter floated effortlessly through vacuum, the mysterious signal's source approaching, Danasheth replying naught in return.

Was it folly? Perchance. Thinking about her future, and course to take, far more than about the mildly interesting broadcast, she studied the Sabrontir system.It was ... interesting. Varied terrain allowing for secluded spots and opportunities, difficult to see through...She could find employ as a guard pilot - and enjoy the silence of space. A technician, perhaps? Just enough to live her days.

Forget... or not. Remember, learn, improve.

Logged

"Captain, the buttocks are moving from the pink into the red and purple spectrum! We cannot maintain this rate of spanking any longer!"

Erik snorted, keying his comm implant to relay through the Karloff's systems, even as he checked for any identifying information. "What? Y've never seen a Salvorathan ship before? It's just gettin' cozy in here, that's all!" The black-and-purple Salvorathan smirked, silently, absently checking the status of his ship's weapons, just in case - after all, it'd hardly do to be unprepared to give any would-be 'acquaintances' a warm welcoming. "Just scannin' the gas blob is all, friend." Not, he mused, that it would likely take much longer - the Karloff wasn't capable of atmosphere-diving, and so only the relatively thin upper-atmosphere gas was available to him. Valuable enough, given that it was inevitably the light elements that could be fed to a fusion plant, but nothing of bank-busting potential.

Switching off the comm implant, he glanced out of habit toward the primary navigational console. "Boris! Plot the quickest way back to the elevator! We'll be leavin' soon enough, I doubt not."

The response was a far cry from the neutral-feminine tones that came as a default setting for shipboard AIs; a strong male voice, it had been a parting gift from his one surviving female Clanmate when he'd set out for this frontier system. Her fondness for ancient Terran media had led both to his ship's name ("For it's certainly a Frankenfreighter, brother," she'd said when explaining the name) and the programming of the AI's vocoder to imitate a long-gone horror movie actor. "As you command, Master Starvoid."

Logged

"I grab the sword!""Mmkay, you're dead.""What!?""You just grabbed the sword of the god you were just personally responsible for banishing from the world for the next ten thousand years. You just got zapped by around a billion volts of Angry Divine Power. You're dead."

While outwardly watching the various beings in the cantina, he inwardly began accessing the local network to query whatever public posting system they had in this half-built facility. Surely someone here would be looking for 'hired help'.

He mused about going to the bar and ordering a pint of vodka, and seeing the faces of the non-Oraki when he took it down in one quaff. The presence of the other Oraki quashed that thought though, it would seem too pretentious. Better just to 'blend in'.

Checking the station bulletin board, Kestral found a peculiar sounding ad in the nearly empty "For Hire" board:

For Hire: "Specialist Engineer with competencies in starship engineering, Robotics, Electronics and Cybernetics as well as professional expertise in computing. All competencies backed up by verifiable sources. Considerable experience in expert systems and AI. Contact Alice@46g.64e.09f3.23 (Docked as: Benjamin Franklin)"

Now that his ad was posted, (and that he'd been tinkering for a bit in his workshop) Alice wondered. Did they have a good Pisco sour in this back end of space, or was the bar going to be the same fiasco as the last time he stopped...

Well, First things first He thought sadly. Better head down to the company offices to check out if they need anybody like me.

"Maia, You'll lock up won't you?"

Logged

"Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away."-Philip K. Dick

There it floated, dead in the midst of space, a vessel huge and silent, no insignia, no banner, no sign of life in any form. A dark shape embedded in utter night.

A brief sensor sweep confirmed Danasheth's first impression - it was devoid of activity, save for the nonsensical signal, the drives cold, its innards likewise.

Drifting by, Danasheth considered her find. It would make good salvage, and a good start for an independent existence. Sadly, her fighter could not haul the dark shape anywhere. What she needed was a larger ship to tow it, and a few industrious sentiets to aid her in carrying her prize.

Launching a transmission scrambler that attached itself near the active antennae, so that others would not be lured here by the ghost ship's call, she engaged the drives, riding on a blue comet tail towards Sabrontir. The station would hold more than enough adventurers, and a few of them might even be of a reliable character.

Sabrontir's station hung in the orbit like a moon of silver, half decomposed, or half unborn, as its ribs were showing, several sections of the construction were only outlined by metal rafters, construction workers resembling puffy snowmen were busy welding and mounting new components in place whereever the gaze fell.

The dock where she rested her fighter was bustling with activity, and temporary home to vessels of varied shapes and degrees of disrepair, even a Kel'Regar vessel could be seen in one corner, using a tentacle to snatch a few construction workers' lunch boxes.

Locking her fighter, she thought what they have been through. "Time to name you, little budy. Red-68 will not do in the long run."

The fighter's position lights blinked as in reply, and then faded. Danasheth was off, heading to where the adventurous kind aggregates.

Logged

"Captain, the buttocks are moving from the pink into the red and purple spectrum! We cannot maintain this rate of spanking any longer!"

Deep SpaceThe dark shape, approached, was massive, easily the size of a Terran Destroyer class'd starship, though dark, and dead. Large enough, it was, in fact, that it could never possibly have seen the surface of a world, or it would have ripped itself apart under its own weight, and no atmosphere could possibly support its shape. A single pass, too, showed the cause of it's death, where a great beam weapon had punched a hole through fully twenty-two visible decks, at an angle to the axis they were aligned on, though the blast had, apparently, missed many of the sensitive drive components.

It was with a electronic squelch that the ancient radio band the ship was broadcasting on died, quelched under a tuft of static, while a fairy sprouted wings of flame, and shot into the night.

The Cantina

BRAM! SPAW! REEe-OooOO! It was, by now, quite questionable as to whether the demented little maroon men torturing their obviously agonizingly suffering instruments were attempting to cover a song written by a more competent band, or whether they were trying to offer a musical interpretation of the Small War of 2015. Either way, it was now certain that the bar, save the doorway, must have been insulated from the rest of the station by vacuum. Otherwise, anything this loud and vibratory had to be illegal. It had to be, for the sake of sanity. And madness.

At the bar, however, the bartender twisted his mouth, his flecked eyes sparkling, even as he threw his hands up into the air, 'accidentally' snagging a frost-rimed mug from the chilled racks above him. "BEER! Beer! I offer you the most wonderous creations of mixology the galaxy has witnessed, upspin of Mother Regar herself, and you ask me for Martian piss-water! But yes, even there, even there, I can show you my skill. We are too far out from Sol, they say, to waste volume on real beer. But ha-al-ha, I have shown them, yes I have. You'll see!" Waving his hands seemingly randomly as he ranted, somehow, some when, the tender slammed the mug, full of a pale, yellow lager, down in front of Mach, his pale fingers trembling as he stated, "Even Jerrod, the black marketeer, even he comes in at the end of every night to drink my beer, for even he can't get it anywhere but the source, no matter how many privateers he buys to bring it to him. And all this, yours for a mere five Yuan."

To Connor, as he entered, the bouncer merely offered a curt nod of passage, almost as if uninterested in the man, or at least, figuring he wouldn't be too much trouble.

Meanwhile, on the freelancer boards were the same offers that could be found in dozens of systems. A few simple patrols, a few more complex patrols, a bounty or three on various unpleasant peoples, and even a handful of salvage jobs, while a pile of interstellar hauling jobs awaited anyone with the spare volume to take them. To those inquiring on inventive routes, more jobs could also be found, the majority of them dealing with construction of the ring itself - Workers were, as always, badly needed to work the dirty jobs, and engineers with the brains to fix the problems that cropped up were always also needed.

Into the cantina she stumbled, her antennae twitching at the mixture of smells and distorted sounds. Quickly, she retracted the sensory fibers and folded her antennae to the sides of her head. It was not good enough.

Over to the band's sound systems she strolled, hidden at the level of the bellies of the crowd. Playing inconspicous she gave them a quick pulse of her scrambler, a flash lost in the sctroboscope lights and cacophony of sounds.Surprised silence fell over the bar, the band members looking at their mute guitars with dismay."Get out!" the barkeep yelled, burning every one of them with his gaze.

Apparently, the follow up band had not arrived yet; the keep was browsing his collection of records when Danasheth hopped on a barstool, and tossed him a gleaming disc, and smiled: "Try this, keep."

The Void Song flooded the bar, music so well suited for space, and long journeys, lively and hard, yet smooth to keep your sanity from straying in the emptiness of space. The bass voices of Haggerd Delmark and Seth'Nor accompanied their hands racing across guitars with virtuosity, and Danasheth, a milk shake in hand set out for what she came to do.

Through the crowd she browsed, observing and feeling; trying to learn behind which countenance more than a desire for a drink and rest waited, looking for someone bright of mind, and interesting of personality; occassionally, she eyed those observing the job offer board. Soon, she'd have a team.

« Last Edit: January 24, 2008, 02:14:06 AM by EchoMirage »

Logged

"Captain, the buttocks are moving from the pink into the red and purple spectrum! We cannot maintain this rate of spanking any longer!"

Having browsed lazily through the company's job offers in the company office, and seeing a few well payed, although rather dull work offers.

Gee, If that's the most exiting they have...no wonder they're still up. Station engineering indeed.

Alice decided to look at the 'other' Job board, and was politely, although grudgingly, directed to the cantina, where the informal work offers would be posted, and where he was almost certain to find a job more to his tastes.

Walking past the rather impressive bouncer. Hmmm, Interesting tattoos, I wonder where he got those done Alice entered the bar. The decor reminding him of his student day, he was hit by a wave of cheerful nostalgia. But this, Alice quickly notice, was hardly his average bar! Two Oraki, a Salvorathan band, seemingly going offstage, expression disappointed (reminded of an old salvorathan friend's musical taste, he was hardly surprised). As well as Oh my god, that right! a Kiranti. Having had acquaintances with a Kiranti sociology professor fantastic Sabacc player, never knew how he could be so good at telling what I was going to do., He had learnt a little of their complex society, and had yet to truly scratch the surface. Well, now would be as good as any other time.

Sitting down next to the small Kiranti, and turning to the barman, alice ordered his drink:

"I'll have a Pisco sour, if that's possible." Although he regretted saying that last sentence. It seemed like every known (and quite a few unknown) bottle of spirit in existence stood behind the point-eared, crimson eyed barman.

Turning to the Kiranti to his side, he started politely: "Quite cosmopolitan for such an isolated system." Extending his hand: "I'm Alice. Tell me, what is a kiranti doing so far away from home?"

« Last Edit: January 17, 2008, 05:44:05 AM by dark_dragon »

Logged

"Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away."-Philip K. Dick

Erik, having just finished bawling out a handful of station techs who'd never seen a Salvorathan in Righteous Fury mode for the trouble thyey'd had in offloading the water and methane he'd scooped at the massive gas giant, stomped into the bar without a second glance at the bouncer. "Vacuum-suckin' halfwits who can't find the clamp fer a standard 73 centimeter pumping port... Bah!" The Salvorathan privateer didn't even spare a glance for the band, who were ignoring the command to get out; one had produced a set of what looked like the bastard offspring of an electronic toolkit and a swiss army knife, and was now waist-deep in the hollow beneath the bar. Wisps of acrid smoke trickled out, adding to the general stink of too many sapients in too small a space.

Hauling himself to a stool, the utterly hairless 'space dwarf' squinted at the Kel'Regar bartender. "I'm lookin' fer the absolute strongest liquor you've got; and I'm wantin' it as a triple, straight. No chill, no glitter. You clear with that?" Truthfully, he could care less if the bartender added anything to the drink, as long as it contained the liquid in question. However, there were appearances to keep in mind - if everyone expects a typical Salvorathan, after all, they turn as predictable as the orbit of the planets.

Logged

"I grab the sword!""Mmkay, you're dead.""What!?""You just grabbed the sword of the god you were just personally responsible for banishing from the world for the next ten thousand years. You just got zapped by around a billion volts of Angry Divine Power. You're dead."

None of the jobs had stood out - he could have taken similar jobs in a dozen other systems. There was no real glory there.

After commiting the names and descriptions of the various bounties to his PDA, Kestral returned his attention to his suroundings, partly startled by the sudden change in music. Was there some sort of electronic discharge? he thought he felt something.

Some other patrons had entered, and quite the mixed bag at that. A Kiranti? He'd never seen one of those, and had not expected to see one out here. Another had stood out, a Salvorathan who went straight up to the bar and made some show about strongest liquor. Kestral smiled at that, rethinking his thought of tossing back a pint of pure alcohol...

Well, when in Rome, thought Kestral, and he moved up to the already crowded bar.

"I am Dana" she replied, somewhat surprised - she expected to watch and examine, not to be approached within two clicks of sitting down. She gave the man a thorough look - he was an elder, judginf from his manner a learned one, his face along with ample wrinkles telling of a lively emotional life. His smell was not predatory, nor did he appear to be one of the soldiers of fortune so common out here.

Truth be said, he was as much a stranger in Sabrontir as Danasheth may be, though less apparent.

"A break from what was so common in my life lately, that is what I am here for. Stress, while awakening the mind and banishing sloth, is poison if unfought" she answered, lending her GalCom a healthy dose of the sing-song Kiranti accent, which had settled like dust over it with years of disuse.

The man was an interesting one, curious and entertaining. She would stay in his company for a while, while keeping an eye in the cantina.

A flurry of action on the stage, one part dwarves accessing their equipment, one part technician trying to salvage the link-up to the bar's sound system for the next act, while the bartender looks at the disc, and half heartedly flipped it into a slot before pounding the shuffle button along with several million other albums, while two tiny creatures crawled out of his pointed ears, no longer needed against the onslaught of sound. It's enough, at least, that only one exceptionally drunk human wound up being rolled from the premises by that tattooed man by the entrance.

"Saa, human, nearly anything is possible here!" A hand woven across a reference, a faint look of consternation, before doing something deep beneath the bar where his hands were well concealed, before careless seeming hands started sloshing alcohol so very precisely from bottle to shaker, a motion that may have been simple mixing, or perhaps an interpretive dance of some sort. Slosh, slosh, slosh, and the sour made its way to a short glass, passing beneath the bar once before landing on top, the white foam on top sprinkled with an intricate pattern of bitters, even as the Salvorathan's request registered in his mind.

"... Aah!? I see, small one. You would challenge me indeed, then! ... Naaa, the Kel'Ora as well? Haaa-laaa, the Gods have smiled on me this day." A flurry of activity, hands flying and, yes, he did just kick that bottle, marked in the alien script of his home into the air off the shelf and into his own hands. Flip and flash and... was that something screeching beneath the bar? Or was that a part of the music? Either way, it was hard to tell, as twin highballs landed on the bar, thick and syrupy, bubbles slowly working their way up from the bottom of the glass through the brilliant green color of the concoction, as someone in the peanut gallery commented, "Maan, ya jag-offs are gunna use up all da detox tonight, ain'tcha?"

Alice had been fearful that the kiranti's GalCom would be hard to understand, but was overjoyed at the beautifuly rich accent flowing through Dana's speech.

Collecting his drink from the eccentric barman "Thankyou very much." he considered his reply carefully.

"As for what I do away from home. Well, I daresay, my ship is my home. As for my birth planet, little awaits me there. What my home does docked here? Well, one could say that I am simply traveling, discovering: places; people; customs. Experiencing the universe, so to speak. If one takes the time, such a life leads to a rather remarkably rewarding journey."

"On your account, should I suppose that your have had quite a journey here yourself? Plenty of happenings between Venria III and here I expect! Hope you did not have too much trouble. These isolated systems can sometimes be rather dicey, can they not?"

Logged

"Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away."-Philip K. Dick

Erik, after waiting through the extravagant show with the patience of a man who knows the result will be worth it, wraps a hand around the glass of faintly luminous green fluid and lifts it off the counter, before turning and giving the speaker from the peanut gallery a look over it, a smirk concealed behind the liquid. "Y'clearly have never had to drink down one of my relatives, friend. If I'm needin' detox, y'd best be callin' the medbay for a liver transplant instead." And with that, the short, purple-black Salvorathan tips the glass back, sinking the contents of the glass in an extended pose familiar to drinkers across the cosmos, whenever the drink ends up thicker than water.

When, finally, he sets the glass down, he takes a moment to lick his lips to ensure there's no green goo left behind, and waits for the kick. It doesn't take long in coming, and indeed he's not particularly surprised by the impact it has - if it involves biochemistry, the Kel'Regar are said to have mastered it, and brewing is one of the earliest arts any civilization picks up, if alcohol affects them the same way as the Starkin and their children races. Fortunately, the drink's muscle twitching aftereffects are hidden by the hue of his skin, and he's set the glass down before they can cause any trouble that way.

As for the Oraki who pushed up alongside him before the whole process, he now squints at the metallic humanoid and the drink before... Him? "Say, aren't y'kind of cheatin' at this? Y'don't actually have a liver, do y'?"

Logged

"I grab the sword!""Mmkay, you're dead.""What!?""You just grabbed the sword of the god you were just personally responsible for banishing from the world for the next ten thousand years. You just got zapped by around a billion volts of Angry Divine Power. You're dead."